


Splinters

by antigonic_k



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Canon-Typical Angst, Character Study, Fallen Hero: Retribution Spoilers, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26440006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigonic_k/pseuds/antigonic_k
Summary: The Ortega/Sidestep's familiar dance through a collection of sweet-bitter turning points, (but mostly an excuse to explore point of view and unreliability.)
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Smoke and Mirrors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ricardo's clever enough not to rip the masks off in this one.  
> (and I make a lot of assumptions).

**2010.**

First the fist collides with your jaw then you grin.

Duck turn kick (miss) kick (hit) and shift. Shark skin is rough like sandpaper and wet and unyielding, but you track the soft and the weak: eyes squinting in the heat and the supple maw you might be able to break and the snout curved like an arrowhead and that human body, ready to bleed, ready to sizzle, following you between the cars. High up, the press is circling vulture-like; from your little dotted audience you feel the smiles and the gasps and the screams and the sighs skittering in your veins like water boiling. 

It’s been going on a while and you’re hot (more than usual, that is), you ache, the taste of blood goes straight to your head. Shit that’s good. _Tap hiss tap_ dance your heels on the asphalt and in the huge windows of the building from the corner of your eye you can see _you_. Behind the sweltering quivering heat of summer. Facing the ugly misshapen silhouette of Sharkinator.

You. You in cobalt blue. 

You, turn duck kick (hit) slide punch (miss) run! stop dodge _laugh_. 

‘Come on, Jaws, show some teeth!’ you taunt and won’t that make a great headline?

In the glass windows the waltz is dizzying, you spy; and Sharkinator snaps at you and you keep eyeing those gills that slice his huge head where it meets his shoulders; because why are they here, because it’s not like they’re any use, it’s not like he’s breathing underwater, so what does he do with those, and you think, _what if, what if I spark these up a little?_

The fish-man is stewing, _whack tap_ and _thump_ goes his knee against your stomach, a strangled chuckle (from you) and a snarl (from him):

’Don’t bite off more than you can chew, Marshal!’

Uh-oh, nice, so we’re really doing this, hm, we’re going for teeth puns? But you can’t hear your own laughter— _you keep eyeing those gills_ —because the crackling breaks and swells in your ears—you flex your fingers (already itching) ( _what if, what if I spark these up a little_?) and you’re ready when he lunges—parry spin and

 _CONNECT_.

You’re not ready, though. For what happens next.

You’re not ready for the water.

You don’t get it, you don’t see it, you can’t see it, you don’t think that’s even possible, _what in the actual fuck?_ Fine, fine, keep moving, can’t stop won’t stop, no, wait, it floods you like a dirty leak floods a crumbling basement; cold and murky and popping until something cracks, something breaks, something short-circuits in your head ( _are your eyes closed?_ ) or in your back and you would laugh, you _would_ , but there’s a moment there when you can’t feel your legs and the whiplash is enough to make you gag in sheer fucking horror.

Though you don’t. You don’t know where you are. Your head is swimming. (Get it? Swimming?)

Fall (on your knees) groan moan

_(Is it crackling and bubbling you hear?)_

dodge roll (yes) exhale and stand up stanD UP STAND—

‘—UP, _STAND UP_ you fucking idiot!’

‘What… Una?’

‘Sure, yeah, say my name in public why don’t you, and next time maybe tag my phone number on a building while you’re at it?’

‘I mean, I don’t have your…’

‘Shut up and _move_!’

You glimpse the prone writhing body of Sharkinator but she’s going fast and the sirens howl and with an arm across her shoulders you turn, veer, _ugh_ , you hit a wall or four, stumble, huff, and under your weight she’s seething; you can hear her sharp little muffled voice through the crepitating haze, _you just couldn’t wait to show-off you absolute dumbass, you just couldn’t, ready to fry right there on the sidewalk, I can’t believe this shit_ and also _do you think my life-purpose is to save your ass?_

It’s a fine ass, you want to say, but your lips feel numb and your shoulder hits the fire escape with a clang ( _where are you?_ ) and the glare of the day is needling at your brain so you let your head fall a little, on her smooth masked head, just a second, Una, can’t stop won’t stop you know me, just a second and then we—

‘Oh fuck no Ricardo, don’t you _dare—_ ’

You definitely dared.

You wake up propped against the brown backrest of your own sofa, eyelids orange, yellow, white, and burning. You can feel her, gloves off, fiddling with your ports. The almost silence, just her breathing and the clinking of metal against metal, a screwdriver? Then, the tentative stirring humming of power under your flesh. The golden smell of coffee somewhere, somewhere close. You flex your hand and she slaps it impatiently, sighs, moves ( _creak_ ) and comes back. Suddenly there’s a soft, damp, cool cloth against your cheek, hmmm, _yes_ , though—wait—

‘What the hell?!’ you recoil up the backrest, face stinging, ‘is that _bleach_?’

‘Boo- _hoo_ , don’t be such a baby, you’re too old for that,’ she tosses the soaked towel on the armrest (that’ll stain), smirking her bunny teeth smirk with a glee that’s nothing short of vicious. 

Mask rolled up to the tip of her nose, she flops down on the coffee table one knee up and closes her small white hand scarred and rough around your smiling winking face—well, not _yours_ , but the one printed on the Charge™ mug. 

‘You’re merciless.’

‘Narcissistic much?’ she comments, tipping the mug. 

Here you are, lovingly painted, with tapered waist and rich blue suit and stylised thunderbolts around your head like some kind of storm-born saint.

‘It was… a gift.’

‘From yourself to yourself? I don’t care, I’m keeping it.’

‘Want to build a little Ricardo altar in your room?’

‘I will throttle you in your sleep.’

‘Please don’t wait for me to sleep.’

She might win at elbowing you in the face, but she can’t win at banter, so she snorts and huffs and shrugs, then walks away. You hear her swear low in the kitchen. You wonder if she blushes; her suit comes up to her chin and the mask comes down to her nose and the large turquoise ovals hide her eyes but she has freckles on her hands and a pale mouth that speak of light hair and sunburns. Not that it matters, but the suspense is killing you, right? It’s been killing you for years and it itches like a scab, this not-knowing, this not-seeing, this inch-by-inch, this one wall you can’t skirt jump _wreck._

The cold bottle of beer falls in your lap and she sits back on her chipmunk perch one knee up. She snaps her fingers at you.

‘Just put the towel on your face, idiot, you’re still bleeding.’

You open the bottle and the cold brew hits your throat just right, bubbles and fresh bitterness like a jolt to the mind. You still feel hazy and lukewarm, you need hot-wiring.

‘That’s not how human medical care works, you know.’

You think she glares, can’t be sure with those turquoise fly eyes, but she gives you the finger too so there’s a fair chance.

‘Fine, yeah, but also, I’m not your fucking nurse.’

‘You _are_ merciless.’

‘I am. And heartless. That’s my secret. That’s why I keep the mask on.’

‘Robot?’

‘Android. Come to wreak havoc on humanity and take the Rangers out, _one_ by _one,’_ she deadpans.

Is she fucking with you? 

Of course—still, your heart throbs in delight and your blood bubbles and something drops low in your stomach like jumping from a cliff ( _no no no don’t think about that_ ) and you can see it in your mind, Una, teeth bared, knuckles white, eyes afire ( _blue eyes brown eyes grey eyes?_ ), the scheming first, then the bite, the kill; she’s got the guts and the moves and the rabid wrathful kick. She could do it. Well: she could try.

You can, you can see it, the bite the kill—the _kiss_ of death. 

Better not say that crap in front of Chen. He already thinks she’s a double-agent on the loose and you have to weave in and out of this conversation like an eel, laughing brightly, saying _come on, come on man, she’s too soft, you’ve seen her coo at dogs when she thinks nobody’s looking_.

You swallow the beer and throw her a brilliant smile and lean all the way, arm outstretched to the fruit basket behind her but she thinks you’re— _oh_ —she slides to the side with a sharp jerk; innocently you grab an apricot though you almost laugh when she hisses.

‘Oh yes, the remake would be legendary,’ you purr, mostly to see if she’ll rip your eyes out. ‘You. Me. Los Diablos 2019. I can see it. _Babe Runner_.’

‘I can’t believe someone made you Marshal. Who the fuck did you bribe?’

‘Don’t be mean, you’re the babe in this scenario.’

You sink into the sofa, stretched out and muscles sore, and when you bite into the apricot with a smile the flesh splits on your tongue like a burst of sunlight. 

She stares. 

She gets up.

She rolls down her mask.

She _does_ blush, doesn’t she?

Looks like you’ve won this round.

‘I’m leaving and you should get some sleep,’ she snaps cradling that mug empty of coffee and full of you. Her mouth is set and her gait is harsh despite your chuckle, but when she walks close there’s a second, a second soft and warm when her naked fingers skim your forehead petal-like but you’re an idiot so you reach to grasp her hand and she punishes you by smacking your head instead.

─────

**2021.**

First the static sizzles against your eardrum and then you grin.

‘You’re in,’ says Deadeye and nothing else since.

The place’s been on your list for years, but this time it’s going to work, this time you’ve put a wire in its gut, this time you’ve heard it plainly from Manolo himself— _she_ wants to meet them at the Cellar Bar. Hollow Ground. A face for the systemic chaos.

It’s been days but every time you tune in you get this shiver this quiver the urge to pace the urge to laugh the urge to dance no that’s not it—the urge to _strike_. You’ve turned off your own microphone so that you can _tap tap tap_ throw the ball against the wall, _twack whoosh_ open the beer bottle, _click click click_ shake the painkiller box, _crack hmm_ make your back pop. Better to keep your distance anyway, technology doesn’t like you much. You turn and turn in the little room, you open the dirty glass door and you crouch on the rickety balcony with the long-ranging binoculars, you fiddle and check the monitor and throw your hearing as far as it can go, which is much further than it once could, strain and strain and you write down the names, the places, you hedge your bets, you come at night, you doze and bite your arm, you sigh and stretch and skip, pins and needles under your skin and ants swarming inside your skull, and then

Then, one day.

You catch it. 

‘They’ll be here tomorrow night, her and Nocturne. Make sure everything is ready. Dampeners on.’

‘Seriously? Candlelit dinner with a telepath? Didn’t even know those were still a thing.’

Fuck yes fuck _yes._ You throw the ball hard against the stone floor and watch the current twitching between your fingers nervous and restless like your brain. You wait a while. You need sleep, you need gear, you dig the heels of your crackling hands against your eyelids and the pain simmers low like a headache. Shit that’s good.

Turn on your heel grab your bag breathe in get out.

Parkfield at night is full of scumbags with impeccable taste in shirts and suits, and if you ever get your fists on one you’ll have to ask them for their tailor’s number. You can’t compete today, wearing a hoodie stolen from Chen, but still you glimpse _you_ in the shop windows, shoulders stooped, hands hidden, head hung low, and you smirk slow in the shadows. Tonight you see _her_. Tonight you see Hollow Ground. Tonight the veil falls the light comes the hunt starts or—whatever else they say when an epiphany hits you in the face with a baseball bat.

You press your index to your ear and stop not far from the Cellar Bar, too close for comfort, close enough to get that small delighted shudder of adrenaline along your spine. And then you wait.

You’ve gotten better at that.

Wait _listen_ track.

Grind your teeth shut your mouth bide your time.

You get your money’s worth tonight: wait listen track and 

hold your breath—hold… hold… hold on.

The voice you hear buries itself in that soft place beneath your ribs where a blade comes to kill.

‘I’m here for a meeting. I was told to wait at the downstairs bar,’ says the sharp little unmuffled voice.

Really you shouldn’t you _shouldn’t_ be surprised but _fuck, tonight?_ and all the same your blood rushes and pounds and you catch your gasp right before it burns your mouth and _sssssssss_ hums a tremor from your bones to your flesh.

To Deadeye, but in your ear, Una asks:

’Aren’t you coming?’ 

You almost laugh. Dirty talking on the job now, are we?

Tempting really, but first you have to checkmate that filthy little liar and also, fuck, make sure she doesn’t get herself killed, and also, fuck again, make sure she doesn’t get herself hollow-grounded, and also, fuck! Shit, shit, shit. What the hell are you doing? What the hell is _she_ doing? Where the fuck are you going? You sizzling crackling flashing and the audio goes dead and your mind races and splits like lightning. 

Can’t wait can’t stop won’t stop.

It takes everything you have not to break into a run, but then again you couldn’t get inside even if you wanted to, and you tell yourself, _she knows what she’s doing_ , you’ve seen it, Chen’s seen it, you’ve exchanged glances—the querulous stance, the fading bruises, the hard muscle under those ridiculous layers. _Seen it felt it_. 

You find the grimy back alley and you grit your teeth. The one-way back door is condemned by a huge dumpster. You raise your gaze to the darkened windows, to the flickering streets and all those strangers who couldn’t care less about what you’re doing, hidden that you are by hood and night. Fuck this. Turn rush _push._ The dumpster whines on its wheels but yields to your hand and releases the door ( _just in case_ ) and you dance back as fast as you’ve come; turn the corner, and now _torture_ , walk the street once, twice, thrice, _tap tap tap_ ing your fingers against your thigh.

Two hours days centuries minutes.

Two three four ten twenty.

You walk further and further to cover you tracks. In the shadows you lay your forehead against a coarse wall for a second. Twist, go back. Weave through the streets. Could use a drink, could use a jump, could use a fall. Could use a fight. Could fight Una. You think of that mask all those years ago, that mask rolled to the tip of her nose, and the grave ( _shit no_ ), and all the masks that came and went, and all the masks that you both still have to peel off, you think of that mirror helmet of… hers? Of course it’s hers. Well, at least you can see yourself in it, and she knows how much you like _that_.

Suddenly you jolt and you hear, you hear it: the running steps, the scrape of the metal back door, the low swearing, the faraway shouts and the racing on the asphalt and then she hits you square in the chest like the bullet she is.

You exhale a groan and steady her with a hand but she jerks away and she’s ready to split but then her eyes register you and for a second you see it like you saw it in that coffeeshop when she came back from the dead, the deer in the headlights, the panic flaring, the dark twist of her mouth ready to bite. 

So what can you do? Smile, sigh. Laugh. 

‘Fancy seeing you here, lover.’

She’s breathing fast and blinks, fists clenched. She must be really upset, ‘cause you wouldn’t have survived that nickname otherwise. You take her in; the hair mussed, the throat working, the shitty flannel shirt on a large t-shirt. Did she meet and greet the queen of down below dressed like a depressed teenager? Fuck she’s an idiot and irresistible. She’s on the balls of her feet and she’ll punch you soon but you see the soft and the weak, her arm slightly bent, her cut lip, the surprise that you could use to take her out. Then suddenly she barks ( _attack first think later_ ):

‘I’m working, Ricardo. Are you following me?’

Is she? Is she working? Working for the bane of your damn existence?  
Tonight the teasing doesn’t flow easy.

‘Working. You’re working.’

‘Working, yeah.’

She’s fucking with you but that’s only fair; after all, you _are_ fucking with her.

‘Shit,’ you say, duly concerned. ‘That boss of yours is running you into the ground.’

She pauses, eyes fixed on yours, warm and dark and wavering. She’s not gonna fall for it. She’s not. She _oh_ , she is. Sharply she turns her head and she sinks all at once, hook and sinker she swallows the lie, ravenous ravenous for half-truths she is.

‘Yeah, she’s a jerk. Listen, I have to go.’

‘Aren’t you going to slap me goodbye?’

‘You’re as disturbed as you are ridiculous.’

‘Whatever you want me to be,’ you tease, but your heart is in your throat.

She snorts and sidesteps you (get it?), ready to disappear, but when she walks close there’s a second, a second soft and warm when your thumb comes and wipes the blood off her mouth, and she’s an idiot so she reaches to grasp your hand and rewards you by kissing your palm instead.


	2. Lights out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still Ricardo, a little more of a mess.  
> (Be warned for a tiny bit of body horror).

You plummet out of sleep all at once, with your heart in your throat and your hands slick with sweat, mattress yielding to break your fall. It’s pitch black—black like a gaping mouth. You can hear your pulse in the dark. You can hear the fear that tremors down your spine. Something’s not right; something throbs under your flesh, pound-pound-pounding behind your eyes. Did you cry out?

In the tar of night, ears pricked, you raise yourself on your elbow. When the blood and the sizzle recede, when your heart slides back in place, you understand.   
There’s somebody here.  
There’s somebody close.

A cupboard sighs, hushed—and naked feet pad on the kitchen tiles. Then; then the whisper of liquid as it falls and settles, the clinking of metal against ceramic, the faint, cautious scrape of felt-padded chairs; maybe, the supple folding of legs and the lazy murmur of a yawn. It smells warm and coffee and sweet.

Oh, silly you. Are you coming?

You get out of bed, you find your feet, you find the door; you find your thoughts when reality sets and cristallises. The living-room is cool and spilling aquatic light and there, just there, from the kitchen, as vivid as a beacon, the shadow moves her hands.

Did she stay the night?  
Fuck. What did you even tell her to achieve that?   
Maybe you’re just that hot.

The challenge is ready on your tongue and you would, oh you _would_ snicker, but something twists hard in your gut when you step close—to you she raises her head, her too-sharp nose; the powdery light dances on her blue eyelids, on the dark mirror of her coffee, on the glint of her almost-smile, and for just a second the ache is so acute that you’re afraid of the sound you might let slip, of the arranging of your face.

Maybe she doesn’t see it. Maybe she’s too serene. She’s strange and lovely here, in her white t-shirt, tinged pink with the half-light, her bruised fingers curled around her cup, a book opened and abandoned, her bright hair cowlicked and tousled by sleep; and her mouth was on your mouth, wasn’t it, just a few hours—

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer”, she bites.  
You blink.   
Shit. That’s your line.  
“I…”  
“It’s safer anyway. Your memory ain’t what it was when you were young, right?”  
You see your smile in her smile in your smile and you take the chair in front of her with as much swagger as you can muster.  
“You know what, I should. Even the score a little.”  
“The score? I would rather die than take a picture of you, Ricardo.”  
"First, that’s a little extreme. Second, what about the magazines cut-outs you keep under your bed?”  
She’s pouring coffee into your cup and barking out a laugh and the coffee spills a little, and her eyes crinkle a little, and you think you laugh too, and here it is, the pointy elbow that jabs so well, and the freckled forehead that she pushes against your shoulder when she’s too soft to hit, so close you could kiss them both, kiss her full.  
“I’ll keep your body under my bed, you idiot.”  
“A little cramped for my taste, but whatever gets you going.”  
She throws a napkin at your smirk.   
“Do you have to turn all my death threats into flirting?”  
“Oh so we _are_ flirting? Good to know.”

You stretch your arms above your head while she mentions that you’re a fucking peacock and you choke on your tea when she says that you’d flirt with a mirror and god, you haven’t felt that young in a lifetime, haven’t felt that bright, blurry with sleep that you are, blurry and happy with your knee against her warm knee and the surf-sound of the waking city. Maybe later today you’ll cook for her. Maybe you can get a bit more sleep. You haven’t slept in so long. You deserve it. You deserve to rest a bit, with her shifting warmth against your stomach, shadowed (no) and enclosed (windows) and safe in the cool dark.

She’s looking at you, no smile, eyes as soft as a touch. What colour are they again? They keep changing in the odd cold light. But she’s strange and lovely here, in her Charge sweater, tinged blue with the morning sun, her bruised fingers curled around her teacup, her bright hair wet and darkened from the shower, her icy little feet against your ankle, and maybe later today you’ll cook for her—

“I don’t think you do, Ricardo.”  
You start.  
The clock click-click-clicks.   
“Sorry. What?”  
“I don’t think you deserve to rest.”  
Wait.  
Something’s not right.

There’s somebody here.   
No. No, that’s not it.  
Ricardo,  
there’s  
nobody  
here.  
Your heart slams into your ribs.   
“Why didn’t you stop me?”

She lays her scalding eyes on your face like a white-hot hand and the pain of it bubbles and pops right through your brain and you see her—you see—the trembling—the silent scream—hard and grey and terrified in her Sidestep suit, tinged bloody in the afternoon glare, no, no no _no_ , her gloved fingers curled around the gun and was that   
_hush_  
was that your name in her mouth?

“Where were you?”  
Turn off the lights. Close your eyes.   
“WHERE WERE YOU?”  
Get out of here.  
“How dare you! How dare you leave me there?“

You hear the chair slamming on the tiles before you realise you’ve jumped to your feet; wait, how can that be, there’s no chair in here; there was never any chair; you can hear yourself breathe, too fast, too shallow, but you can’t—there’s no—you don’t have an answer for her, and you want to beg, you want to cry, you would—sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—but there’s no—there’s only her voice and your voice and why didn’t you stop her? Where were you? How dare you? How dare you walk away?

The walls are white and behind her the window stretches and pulls and blinds and in the air the stench of blood and oil and death, so potent it makes you choke, and heave, and you think you’ve buried your face in your hands (close your eyes) but you’re wrong.  
You’re wrong.

She tilts your head up. Her palms are cold against the fever of your temples, your cheeks.   
“Look at me.”  
 _Don’t look_.  
"Look at me.”  
Look at me  
Look at m  
Look at  
Look 

You don’t want to look you know you know exactly _don’t look don’t look don’t lo  
_ In front of you or in your mind, you see. The brokenness of her ruined face and the sickening dip of her lovely freckled forehead and _the blood all that blood on the ground all those bodies_ , and your stomach turns when she hangs a smile on her mangled jaw, and she’s so close you can taste the fear on her breath, so close you can see the broken teeth, the distorted bone, the glass digging into her torn skin, and in her bright blood-soaked hair the gaping—the—

Did she Did you

cry out? cry out?

Waking in the swallowing dark is a relief so potent you could sob.  
You don’t, though.  
Quick. You need to find your feet, find the door.   
_Where were you_  
It’s okay. You can go. There’s nobody here.  
There hasn’t been anybody here in years. 


	3. Out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foraying quickly into Sidestep's brain, right after the Heartbreak incident.  
> Obviously, it's not going great.

**2013\. The Farm.**

You’re not closing your eyes now, not in this place, not ever.  
Blink and you fucking disappear.  
Things have changed. You’re just biding your time. You’re just crouching low. You look at them straight in the face and if they’re too soft you bare your teeth to make them stumble back. You can smell the fear on them, the unease. They’ve seen you quick, they’ve seen you wild. They can prod, they can slice, they can tear. You don’t care. You lock your muscles and you give them a smile that will turn their dreams to anguish. Oh they know, that they’re threading dark water. 

What did they expect? 

You fled once, and you had no-one then. They don’t stand a chance this time.  
No slipping away into the night. No fleeing on silent feet.  
No mercy.  
You’ll be ready when the cavalry breaks down the door with a quip and a zap.  
Any day now.  
Keep your eyes open ’til then.

─────

No windows underground. No clocks in the labs, only watches that the white coats hide under long sleeves. They keep you awake, but you wouldn’t sleep anyway. Your brain left to its own devices tends to spew a bloody-black tar of vertigo. Your eyelids feel vellum-thin and your fingers mauve-cold, and that’s all fucking fine. Jittery means paranoid, paranoid means alert, alert means lethal. Or as lethal as you can be when they tie you to the exam table and inject you with enough tranquilliser to kill a small dog.  
Guess you shouldn’t have slammed your forehead in a-too-close-nose on—when was it? Day three? Day four? No more than that. 

You can see your synapses blink and flash on their black screens. Their speech is muddied, but it trickles in eventually, molasses-slow; sometimes it comes back quick and sharp when you break the surface of awareness, heart mad with the return of life. 

In the morning (is it morning?) they pin your tongue with a metal probe that tastes like a gun barrel and your name screamed too late.   
You’re not worried though. Too late once, but not twice.

─────

It’s not that you can’t do it alone. They’re not stashing you in the same facility, weapon that you are now, but you’re starting to get the hang of the layout, stumbling in blinding corridors between two guards, listening to a stray hint and a whispered conversation. If you take them by surprise—a well-placed elbow when they free your wrists—you might be able to slip and hack your way through those keypads they thumb carelessly. The white coats don’t have guns, but the guards do. You’ve become more than adequate; you should be able to beat one of them up, even if your limbs right now feel like pulp, even if your mind—  
The dampeners make your telepathy buzz and writhe inside your skull—too long, too long without stretching itself, without extending its fingers to brush at a reality blurry as a nightmare.   
Experienced like this, stuck inside your own body, bereft of those mind thresholds that allowed you the grey freedom of liminal spaces, the world has grown unreal. Maybe it is. Maybe you’re not here. Maybe you’re already gone.

Hey, come back. What were you saying? You should be able to beat one of them up and run run run to that metal door you hear shut like a sigh when the white coats finish their shift. Really—it’s not that you can’t do it alone. It’s just good thinking. You’re stronger with someone on the outside. When he comes, you can split this place open like a bruised fruit. 

You just have to hold out a little longer.

─────

Any day now.

─────

You don’t know what’s happening to your eyes. You’re not closing them now, not in this place, not ever—or maybe just a minute, only because the light needles at your optic nerve like a nail—you can feel it shift inside your pupil, nudging your brain with a wet ripe sound, all the way… All the way, far far far down to the back of your throat. 

Stop. 

Where are you? You haven’t seen your face in so long. Behind the mask there’s a mask that hides a mask that hides a mask. No—that’s not true. It was all real, it was, it was. You remember your face, unveiled on a grey-fog night, glimpsed one last time in the glass panes before they shattered into emptiness—it can’t have been more than a week. You know he’s coming for you like you always come for him.   
They’ll be here. They’ll all be here. They’re heroes after all. You’re heroes after all. None of you would let the world fester like this. None of you would let the tubes leak black, the air turn to rust, the _HOWL_ enter you until it spreads and slashes at your brain, until the trigger clicks.  
Where are you? You haven’t seen your fa—Wait. Rewind, don’t get lost, he’s coming for you like you always came for him. Shouldn’t you prepare yourself? Get up? Move fast? Cover your bare spine, your naked legs? You wouldn’t want them to see your skin. 

You’re running now. There’s a good chance you’re running. Remember? Remember? Remember the city how the windows reflect the street how the skyscrapers melt into the sky how the sky dissolve into the dark mad sea? The pavement is thumping against the sole of your feet and the heat is swarming up your legs up up up through the tip of your fingers to the root of your hair. Yes you remember the heat. Outside, _inside_. Heart bursting with it. 

You think you gasp awake.

─────

Don’t forget again, you have to keep your eyes open.  
Blink and you fucking disappear.

─────

Time is sluggish around here. No clocks, and you miss the toxic purple of the Los Diablos sunset, the velvet cover of the night, you miss, you miss, you miss Anathema, their voice, their hand on your shoulder, that smile you saw melt like too-hot play-doh under their stained fingers—shut up—you miss the heat of the sun on your nape—yes that’s better—you miss coffee rich and dark, you miss the mind-voices weaving in and out of your head, never alone, always alone, you miss the supple cover of the suit, the darkness of the mask, you miss you miss you miss your name so roundly shaped by tongues warm and familiar. 

You remember your name, right?  
One of the white coats joked about it the other day. Asked you if anybody ever fell for that cardboard Irish heritage you aimed at. They’re growing bolder now; they get in your face, they laugh, they don’t hesitate before they pull at your eyelids, stab at your arm, open your jaw.  
Too close, too cocky, leaving on your tongue the foretaste of revenge.

One night (is it night?) two of them move around you snake-like in the yellow daze and while they stick their electrodes on your scalp they jeer, they circle, they ask again and again—so did you like it, the glitter, the fame? Say, how was it? Did you party your heart out? Did you touch your heroes? Did you wear a dress? Did you think you could be a person? Did the tattoos turn your little friends on?

As if they didn’t know that what you snatched for yourself back then was only a half-life, hidden and veiled like prey, every opening making you weaker, making you reckless, making you—what?  
Hopeful?   
Still they shouldn’t, shouldn’t snicker, shouldn’t touch, shouldn’t spit. 

You could still bite. You will, won’t you?   
You were supposed to be crouching low.  
Feels like you might have fallen to your knees instead.

─────

Time is running out. You’re not stupid. You can feel your palms turn soft, your muscles turn liquid, the mellow ginger fuzz growing thicker and thicker when you slide a hand on the head they shaved—when? A week ago. A month ago. A century ago.

Any day now. He knows you can take it until he’s ready. He must be planning something big. Silly man, always so dramatic. He’s had time to track you down now, to gather what he needs, to convince Steel, even. You can see it now, the bursting in all guns blazing, the brilliant grin, the righteous anger, the flash of blue and white. You’ll be ready, you’ll be ready.

It’s not that you couldn’t do it alone, but you’re a little tired. It’s so much easier when someone’s got your back, right? He taught you that. You should tell him when he gets here. You should tell him a lot of things.

Hours—days—weeks—seconds unfurl like a shroud.

They leave you alone a little sometimes and when nothing moves when nothing hurts it’s difficult not to sleep. Pain soft and hushed has settled at the base of your spine, reminding you where your body starts and stops. You haven’t felt the edges of your mind in so long, you have to cling to flesh. 

Today they’ve settled you in the familiar lab, sitting slightly swaying on the exam table, waiting, useless and empty. Your patient gown is thin and papery, gaping at the back like a hungry mouth. The air is hot and humid, the neon tubes sizzle and pop like bug zappers. On the white boards, they left a few of your scans—lovely colourful waves on translucent black. On the nearest work table, you can see the coffee growing cold, and two library books wrapped in neat plastic covers, and even a trashy tabloid with a cover so crisp and new—   
So crisp and new—

You know that smile.  
Suddenly swallowing is stretching your throat.  
You know that stupid fancy shirt. You know those camera flashes. You know that lazy hand caught in a cheeky wave, two fingers up.  
You know that sloping shoulder, that arm wrapped snugly, warm as a secret and light as electricity.   
Oh yes yes you _know_ that sun-drenched happiness.  
You don’t know the girl, you don’t see the venue, you can’t read the title, but it doesn’t matter.

You’ve seen enough.   
You close your dry eyes before they burn.  
He’s not coming. Nobody’s coming.  
You fucking disappeared. 


	4. Masquerade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidestep is a sucker (I mean, that's not news.)

**2009.**

When you SLAM him into the ground with a cry of triumph _oh_ you feel the skittering urge to crack his skull against the asphalt. There. Just a second. Victory will do that to you—a flash of heat from your brain down to your fingertips. A moment of violence, pure and unaltered, before you remember that you prefer his lovely head protected and intact.

“You’re _shit_ at this, old man,” you croak.

Under your thighs he shifts, laughing, but doesn’t escape. Sparring has been good to you tonight. You’ve thrown him at your feet twice in a row, nipped one of his ridiculous stunt in the bud with a well-placed leg, painted his eye blue with a stroke of the elbow. You shouldn’t be this proud, but here it is. Looks like the balance is shifting at last. Looks like Ricardo is slowing down. Looks like you’ve gotten _good_.

“I know, I’m so off my game today,” he acknowledges, vaguely abashed, mostly petulant. How he manages to dust a dash of cheekiness in that loser’s whine, you don’t know.

You jump to your feet before his hands fall on your legs; you jump about, stretch your arms, avert your eyes. You don’t need that, don’t need that at all, though the mask would hide the blush, and the suit cover the goosebumps. The vacant lot is deserted, glowing grey and purple in the moon-smog, and against the night Ortega glows like lightning. Nonchalantly he dusts himself and spreads his arms, a blue taunt to your simmering offensive.

“Rematch?”

“Are you _perhaps_ a masochist?”

“Please, I was just warming up.”

You bark a laugh. The nerve.

“Is that what you call getting head-butted by someone half your size?”

He only smiles. That smile makes you boil.

“Fine. You’re going down, Marshal.”

“Care to make this interesting?”

“Victory is very interesting.”

“Oh please, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“What do you want, Ricardo?”

You’re already walking towards him, feet harsh on the concrete, fist clenched into an incoming punch. You want his teeth to rattle with it.

“If I win you take off your mask.”

You stop.

He’s asked before. Of course he’s asked before. A name wasn’t enough and a hand wasn’t enough and a chin and a mouth weren’t enough. He’s asked and asked and joked about asking and asked again. He tried sweetness and begging and teasing and taunting. What’s his plan here, does he think he can throw you off your game? You’ve kicked his ass, you can do it again. Still—the smugness—you should have cracked that skull when you had the chance.

(Maybe he knows you a little—maybe he knows anger will short-circuit your brain.)

“You won’t win.”

“I might win.”

“You won’t win.”

“And _if_ you win…”

“I _will_ win, Ricardo.”

“ _If_ you win I could… take off my suit?” he purrs with a Hollywood glint of teeth.

“Pass,” you hiss, stepping up to him. “ _When_ I win you shave your stupid head. You look like a Ken doll and I want to see you cry for this.”

“Deal. Though, you know I’d cry just to see your pretty fa—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, and in a heartbeat you’ve turn from flesh to flint, hard fist hard kick and burning— _burning_ will.

But—but in front of you Ortega comes alive. Gone are the catlike indolence, the slightly-off moves, the subtle mistakes that made you proud—that made you weak. Suddenly your fist doesn’t reach, your kick doesn’t touch, suddenly the offensive is matched hit for hit. The jerk always knew how to use his surroundings to his advantage—and in the momentum of half walls, in the unfair shielding of a crumbling pillar, in the jagged shadows of gutted fences you feel your fear flash and grow.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.

Taut as a bowstring you dodge and parry. You can’t land a hit. He jumps and retreats and his laughter hurts you to the gums, squirming along your nerves. Idiot, idiot. When did he start planning this? Is he high on adrenaline, or did he let your wins trickle week after week, more and more often, using your own arrogance to lull you into complacency? And isn’t it unbearable, isn’t it _essential_ , that thrill right up your neck when his knee finds your stomach, when his teasing finds your fervour, one step back, one step forward, swerve, turn, spin, _hit_.

“ _Yes_ ,” you snarl, no violence barred now, teeth and nails despite the suit and the mask. There’s something about this, about _this_ , right here, about the push, the pull, the needling, the jabbing, the scratching, the pang of hurt, the twinge of delight. In front of him you’re light on your feet, circling and turning, eyes wide open for an opening, dodging his attacks, digging your fingers in the cracks, covering your own with strikes and bites, _here_ , hanging by a thread, hanging over the abyss, ready to drop, ready to jump, ready to kill.

Wait—no—you turn, he blocks. His hand crackles on your shoulder. You wince, you shiver. Your open palm smacks his temple, petty, childish, but he’s still advancing—

There’s a second of darkness, hush, too slow, too fast, a world under water.

You sidestep, and for a moment you want to run, run _away_ , but there’s no running away from this, there’s only hurtling towards the pyre, and with a frustrated shout you strike, too much impetus—crash—throb—the pain flares—that’s fine—but there’s a weakness there—an opening—too late—your own fault—with one hand he slams you against the pillar, palm pulsing low electricity into your sternum.

You exhale.

“Do you yield?”

You look at him hard. Under the moon and your scalding glare he’s inscrutable. No smile this time. Just the dark eyes, searching, serious as murder. This is no laughing matter—not for either of you.

“I never yield.”

“Una.”

“You played me.”

“Don’t I always?”

You balk at that. It’s a joke, of course. It still slots in your chest and in your throat heavy as an omen.

Slowly he lowers his hand and lets you go. You could counter-attack, maybe. Not a fair fight, but a fight you might win. You could, you could—keep this going. Feed the fire. Watch this blister. But he’s him, and you’re you.

He steps back, you clench your jaw.

Time to face the music.

You don’t know what he sees, but he has the audacity to frown. His eyes go soft, his hand unfurls.

“Una, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not a fucking coward. I lost, didn’t I?”

“I mean it. If you don’t want to—”

“Don’t. This was a jerk move. You’re an asshole. Live with it.”

“Hah. Right back at you.”

Of course, you can’t help but huff a laugh. How does he coax that from you, all of that? You almost want his hand in your hand. Almost. The grin he gives you is too charming, though. You close your eyes. Don’t be stupid. Right now you need balance.

Far away the sounds of the city gleam and flicker. Your hands are sweaty—the fight is draining from your blood and you feel empty of everything but your heart, throbbing like a drum in your ears, behind your eyelids, deep in your gut. What are you afraid of? There’s nobody here. Nobody but him. What’s this, that trembling in your fingers, that lump in your throat? Are you hoping he’ll find you pretty? You’re a fucking tool. The man has eyes, if not a brain.

“I can’t wait to see you,” he says, low.

So impatient. You know what he’s doing—urging you ever so slightly, using warmth as a weapon.

“You know, you don’t let me see you either, idiot.”

A photogenic mask on his features and a haze of static right behind it. Isn't that the same?

“I say what I think," he counters.

“What, am I supposed to sift through the bullshit to get at the truth?”

“The truth is, I can’t wait to see you.”

Trust Ortega to wind you around his finger until you’re dizzy. Through the mask you rub your face, the face he’s going to see, the face he’s going to judge, the face he’s going to remember, the face that’s yours to keep and yours to give. Do you want to give it to him?

“Hey. Will you shave your head anyway?” you ask.

Your voice sounds a little like begging, a little like clinging to your last shred of dignity.

He snorts. At least there's this: he’s not a sore winner, the idiot, the lovely idiot.

“Deal.”

“Fine, then.”

Breathe.

 _Breathe_.

At the base of your throat close to the pulse you grab the hem of your mask; in one swift move you take it off.


End file.
